


sweet dreams i've been sold

by daydoodles



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: (I think?), 5+1 Things, Canon Compliant, M/M, Photography, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 05:23:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9220607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daydoodles/pseuds/daydoodles
Summary: Five times Jack takes a picture of Kent, and one time he doesn't.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Listen y'all, I know Jack and Kent were not good for each other, but that doesn't mean they didn't have their soft moments. Relationships are tricky things, and they're messy; sometimes that means a lot of yelling and hurting and anger, but sometimes it's more subtle than that.
> 
> Oh and the title is from [Old Bones](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lh9fpCgNW-I) by Broadside, which is like....80% of the inspiration for whatever this is.

01.

Jack managed to convince Kent to come with him, on their off day, which never happens. Kent doesn’t usually like sitting in silence as Jack takes photograph after photograph, of every random sign and tree and bug that he can find; Kent’s too antsy, always has to be moving. Jack sees the tension there, in Kent’s shoulders, but doesn’t know how to ask what’s wrong, doesn’t have the words. So he just stands there beside his best friend, on some dock on the outskirts of Halifax, which isn’t home yet, not really, but it’s getting there. And he takes pictures. Of the sky, the boats, the waves. Every now and then, he’ll manage to time it just well enough to get a glimpse of a seagull against the stark blue of the ocean. He’s working on his timing, slowly but surely.

He wanders, for a while, up and down the unfamiliar docks of this unfamiliar city, and wonders what this is like for Kent. For Jack, at least, he hasn’t left his home country, so even though he’s in a new place with new people, it still has a vague familiarity that’s just enough to be a comfort. Kent doesn’t even have that. He grew up in Virginia, which Jack’s never been to, but Kent’s talked about home enough for Jack to know it’s a coastal state; and the only solace he can think of is that this little dock is connected to Kent’s hometown by miles and miles of ocean. The same ocean Kent used to play in when he was a kid, the same water that made his eyes sting and his lungs burn and his skin soften, is right here in front of them, preserved in the polaroids Jack’s stuffed into his coat pocket.

He only has one more photo left, so he makes his way back to where Kent’s in the same spot he left him what seems like hours ago. The wind is picking up, the salty air whipping Kent’s cowlicks in every direction, and maybe Jack thinks that’s symbolic for something, because it gives him the courage to ask.

“What’s on your mind, Kenny?”

Kent starts, turning slightly to face Jack as he walks up beside him. “Just wondering.”

“About what?” Jack is wondering about the future, himself; how he’ll fit into their new team, if he and Kent will be on the same line, if he’ll make his dad proud. Really, it’s the only things he ever wonders about.

“The past, I guess.” When he doesn’t elaborate, Jack nudges his arm, and Kent looks at him but doesn’t meet his eyes. “You know, like, if I would do anything differently if I could. If I should have done anything differently.”

“Kenny, you’ve done everything you can, you know that.” This is new; Jack’s usually the one second-guessing himself, and it’s disorienting to be on the other side of this conversation. He knows what people have told him, but how do you say the words you don’t believe yourself?

“I know, but maybe that’s the problem.” Kent’s hand jerks up like he’s tempted to rake his fingers through his hair, but he stops himself and scrubs at his eye instead. “Like, fuck, Zimms, I’m only sixteen. Why the fuck should I have left the only place I’ve ever lived, the only people I’ve ever known, to go to a completely new country and start all over at the bottom of the ladder? There’s no guarantee I’ll even be worth having on the team. I don’t even know if I’m ready.” He looks shaken, and Jack recognises that streak of fear in his eyes. He sees himself in it.

Jack turns, puts a comforting hand on Kent’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about any of that. You’re here now, and you’ve been doing well in practise, the coaches have told you that. I don’t know what it’s like to leave your home, not like you do, but home isn’t a place anyway. It’s people, and sometimes you just have to find someone that will let you rest in them.” He learned that from his maman, and she always knew what she was talking about.

Kent smiles, and it’s a little sad, but he murmurs a thanks and goes back to watching the waves, so Jack knows they’re done talking about it. So he watches Kent, and the way he’s got his eyes closed against the breeze, breathing in the ocean air, salt making his hair curl behind his ears, Jack can’t resist. He adjusts his camera, frames the shot against an endless blue backdrop, and saves this memory forever.

“C’mon, Kenny. I’m out of film.”

* * *

 

02.

They’re on their way to a roadie against the Islanders, and it’s not a long bus ride but it’s enough to be boring after the first hour. Kent and Jack are sitting next to each other, as usual, and Kent has the window seat, as usual. But unlike usual, Kent isn’t listening to music, watching stupid cat videos, or otherwise distracting himself from the monotony of travelling. He’s just sat there, staring out the window, and he hasn’t moved for at least thirty minutes, not even to readjust in his seat.

It’s not exactly enough to make Jack worry, but the blank stare he’s got fixed on nothing in particular sure is.

He bumps his shoulder against Kent’s. “You okay?”

Kent shrugs a little, but doesn’t even take his eyes off the glass. He mumbles out an “I’m fine,” which is a universal sign that he is not, in fact, fine.

“Talk to me, Kenny.”

Kent glances at him then, but it’s a fleeting thing. “Really, man, I’m okay. Just wish it would all slow down for a while.”

Jack knows, logically, that if they keep pursuing their goals of professional hockey, keep playing at higher and higher levels, longer and longer, it will never slow down. It can’t. If you slow down, you get left behind. But he won’t say that, because he knows Kent knows it too, and he won’t be the one to remind him how cruel the world of hockey is. Or the world in general.

“Do you want to watch a movie?” he offers, knowing it’s a stretch because his phone only has 67%, but it’s worth a shot if it gets Kent out of his head.

“No thanks, Zimms. You just do your thing, don’t worry about me.” He tosses Jack a small smile, and he’s back to staring at the passing scenery. Jack stuffs his phone into his bag, and notices his camera, and then he’s taking it out and fiddling with it to make sure he’s brought his extra film. He still takes pictures every time they travel.

He always photographs the destination, though, never the journey, and it occurs to him that that isn’t quite fair. The destination is why you go, but the travelling is what gets you places, and it deserves to be honoured too. Really, most of life is spent travelling between places. And he realises that most of his travelling is done with one person in particular by his side, so he deserves to be admired too.

He tries not to be obvious, so Kent won’t question why he’s taking his picture on a nasty bus that smells like teenage boys and hopes and dreams and some sort of artificial air freshener, but Kent is still oblivious so he doesn’t need to worry. So he points the lens, and snaps the photo, and shakes it till it’s developed. The lighting is weird, a little harsh, but so is Kent and it makes his hair glow golden, and the purple of the dusk behind him is almost as beautiful as he is.

* * *

 

03.

Jack does not like dealing with the media. It’s due in part to anxiety, part lack of social skills, and part intolerance for stupid questions, which he would have to put up with if he was made to address the reporters. Thankfully, he isn’t asked to do pressers that often, and Kent has become known as his partner in crime, so he’ll do for the both of them. Kent has always been better with people than Jack, even if he can tell how fake the lilt of Kent’s voice is, and the smirk he wears is forced; most people wouldn’t notice a difference, and they don’t.

Another reason Jack hates the media is the general fakeness of it all; it’s all staged, planned and plotted and arranged just how it’s wanted, and Jack hates being confined to a role in a play. Kent argues that it’s all part of the process, that it’s a necessary evil to make yourself available to the world, but it’s obvious (to Jack, anyway) that Kent doesn’t actually open up, ever. Not to reporters, not to the public.

But he does a convincing job of selling the part, for what it’s worth. He talks to the press, answers their never ending questions that inevitably all get the same responses, shakes hands of important people and poses for photos to post online. In the pictures he looks effortless, carefree, but from across the room Jack notices the tension in his shoulders, the flex of his jaw.

Jack always stays toward the back when Kent’s being interviewed, and this is why.

He can see from his spot behind the crowd how bored Kent is, how unimpressed with these reporters, how unflattered he is to meet yet another important person the league decided should make a public appearance. He looks put together in his suit, but Jack knows that he’ll rip off the tie the moment the cameras stop rolling, and he’ll change into his signature sweats within minutes after that. It’s not surreal seeing Kent like this by any means, since it happens after nearly every game, but that doesn’t make it more natural.

Jack pulls his camera from his bag, and waits till the press is photographing Kent shaking hands with another benefactor he should know but doesn’t, so his flash won’t be obvious. Kent’s eyes flick to him right as he looks through the viewfinder, and then Kent’s smile softens, becomes a little more genuine, and then he’s bathed in a deluge of white.

* * *

 

04.

Jack has a bad case of insomnia, because anxiety will do that to you; and so does Kent, because ambition will do that to you. They’re always roomies, so they can keep each other company till the wee hours of the morning, if needed, but sometimes the restlessness is about more than just not sleeping.

“I gotta move, Zimms. Wanna go for a run?”

Jack nods, and throws on his shoes since neither of them have even bothered to change out of their workout clothes from practise earlier. There’s no one in the lobby of the hotel, and everything is slightly dimmer than it is during the day, and it’s somehow fitting.

They don’t know the city well, but thankfully Jack has a decent sense of direction, so they pick a street and just start jogging. It’s not meant to be a workout by any means; Coach would kill them if he found out they pushed themselves too hard the night before a game. But it gives their bodies something to do, which also distracts their minds. Most of the time.

“Kenny, do you think my dad is proud of me?”

Kent cuts him a look, meets his eyes just long enough to read them. Jack doesn’t know how Kent does that, looks straight into his soul. “Yeah, he is. He’s told me so.”

  
“But, if he didn’t tell you, would you have known?” There’s a difference between saying you’re proud of someone and acting like it, and he knows Kent knows that.

Kent hums. “Yeah, I still would have.” He doesn’t elaborate, and Jack doesn’t ask any more questions. It’s a few minutes later when he adds, “And, for what it’s worth, I’m proud of you too.”

They run past a park, and a mall, and so many restaurants Jack loses count, and eventually they end up in front of an art gallery. He tells Kent to wait, says he needs a breather, but really he’s fishing around in his hoodie for his camera. There’s a painting in the window, propped up on an easel, of a man cast in shadow with a pair of forks next to him. The contrast is high, the saturation is low, and it’s sort of domestic and sort of disconcerting, weird in a way that makes Jack want to remember it. So he finally digs his camera out of his hoodie (he’d worn it around his neck, but under the fabric, so it wouldn’t get banged up) and snaps a picture, but after he’s shaken it and let it develop he realises it doesn’t do the real thing justice at all.

“Zimms, that’s what cell phones are for,” Kent chirps as he pulls his out of his pocket, then snaps a photo without any thought to staging whatsoever. He tilts the screen toward Jack, who huffs.

“I hope hockey works out for you, because you’re a terrible photographer.”

“Shut up, man. I’m not the one who takes his polaroid on a fucking run.”

Jack rolls his eyes good-naturedly, and goes back to admiring the painting, which Kent does now, too. There isn’t a card or any information that Jack can see, so he doesn’t know the context or even what the hell the forks are there for to begin with (which he’d been trying to figure out since he first spotted it). But if Jack has an eye for photography, painting is more Kent’s style. He has no talent for it himself, but he loves admiring the work of others, loses himself in it.

Kent leans closer to the glass, mumbling about contrast and brush strokes and the juxtaposition of style, and Jack pretends to listen but he’s more interested in Kent himself. So he does what he always does, and snaps a photo. Kent doesn’t notice.

Later, while Kent’s in the bathroom and Jack has the room to himself, he looks at the polaroid. It’s a little grainy, and a little blurry because Kent had been moving, but Jack got just the right angle so it looks like Kent is facing the man in the painting. It’s fitting, he thinks, since he can’t figure either of them out.

* * *

 

05.

Jack rolls over, and Kent’s still asleep. He’s not surprised, not at all, because Kent always had a tendency to sleep late, and even more so after spending a night together. He stretches, and tries not to jostle Kent too much, since he knows if he wakes Kent up he’ll be grumpier and clingier than usual, which Jack doesn’t have the patience for at the moment. He pulls the covers up farther over Kent’s bare chest, tucking him in like a little kid, and presses his lips to Kent’s temple before rolling out of bed and onto the carpet.

He finds his clothes from last night, throws them in the hamper, and pulls on a new shirt and boxers before heading to the kitchen. He’s not a good cook by any stretch of the imagination, but he can handle eggs and toast. He bustles around, scrambling the eggs so he doesn’t have to bother with being neat, and he toasts the bread before slathering it in butter and setting the jam on the table. It doesn’t take long, because there’s only so much he can do to draw out cooking eggs and toast, so he heads back to his bedroom to find Kent still passed out.

He pads over to the bed, sits on the edge of the mattress. Picks his camera up from its place on the nightstand.

He adjusts the settings, points it right at Kent’s bedhead, and says, “Rise and shine, Kenny.”

The photo he gets is his favourite of Kent, all soft around the edges and fuzzy from sleep, hair sticking out in every direction as it catches the sunlight a million different ways. He’s propped himself up halfway on an elbow so he can rub the sleep from his eye, and he’s smiling with such vulnerability that it makes Jack’s heart clench. If he didn’t know any better, Jack might think he could live with this for the rest of his life. It’s almost a shame he knows them better than that.

* * *

 

+01.

It’s a warm day out, and the air is dry, but it’s clear, and basically the best weather they could’ve hoped for to spend the day outside. Jack is a little overwhelmed with the whole ceremony of it, the formality - which, granted, had been toned down a lot, but was nonetheless more than Jack wanted to deal with; but he would do it for Kent. He figures he owes him this much.

His suit is a little heavy, and he could really use some water, but the atmosphere is nice, and he makes a mental note to tell Kent that later; Jack knows how hard he worked to make it perfect. There’s music playing softly in the background, and the guests are mingling, which Jack doesn’t do well with, but then the music changes and people are taking their seats; Bitty slides into the chair next to Jack with a comforting hand on his arm. Jack smiles down at him, and then the doors open, and it’s time.

For most people, this is the moment they would turn to the back of the seating, past the chairs, and the strategically placed pillars that frame the makeshift room of sorts, and wait to catch the first glimpse of Kent in all his glory. But Jack knows better than that. He stays facing forward, steadily positioning his polaroid from back when he was a kid, framing the shot just how he wants it. He watches Alexei.

Jack knows the exact moment Kent comes into view, not from the little gasp of “Sweetheart, he looks beautiful,” from Bitty to his left or the collective gasp the guests seem to take; he can see it in the way Alexei’s face lights up instantly. He’s smiling, and he’s crying, and it looks like he’s saying something under his breath, probably in Russian, but then he brings a large hand up to cover his mouth, and the tears don’t stop coming. Jack releases the shutter.

Later, he’ll show Bitty the photo; Alexei with stars in his eyes and a heart so full he couldn’t possibly keep it all in. He’ll show it to Alexei, too, who will tell him everything that was going through his mind at that moment; how he never thought he’d get this, never imagined he would have the chance to spend his life with the man he loves, to be happy. And he’ll show it to Kent, who will just smile softly and pull him into a hug with a thick, “Thanks for everything, Zimms.”

And later, Kent and Alexei will keep that photo in a frame on their mantle; and it'll still be there even when it's faded, and Alexei will still look at Kent like he's the best thing that ever happened to him, because he is.

And Jack will still be taking pictures, but now they'll be of a different subject.

**Author's Note:**

> That painting is a [real piece](https://levadrouilleururbain.wordpress.com/2013/07/12/yvon-villeneuve-arte-povera-lespace-contemporain-galerie-dart/) in the L'espace contemporain galerie d'art in Quebec City, and it's as confusingly intriguing as it sounds.
> 
> Talk to me about soft Pimms, okay? They weren't always harsh, they were just kids.


End file.
